


Ab Initio

by Innin



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M, Power Dynamics, Scheming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innin/pseuds/Innin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Dagor Bragollach Curufin seeks refuge in Nargothrond, setting in motion events that do not always work in his favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The knife was long and slender, with a handle of smooth bone. Wielded in one gentle hand, it nicked effortlessly through the leather fastenings of Curufin’s armour. He stood, broad-shouldered and his chin tilted upward, with both feet planted square onto the floor.

Finrod circled him. Another flick of the knife, and the second of Curufin’s bloodied spaulders clattered to the floor, leaving him bare-armed.

“I will expect this to be fixed.”

“You will receive a new set of armour for your troubles, or the materials to forge one yourself if you so wish. This is beyond repair.” Finrod’s robe, the hem heavy with thread-of-gold embroidery twisted into snakes, billowed around his legs as he resumed walking. “But I find the symbolism rather too enticing to waste.”

Curufin frowned, and said nothing, merely watching. In short order, the remainder of his armour followed, until the metal piled around him. Both, enticed by the handiwork, jumped when the dented, torn chestplate crashed down, leaving Curufin in his undergarments.

“An arming doublet, not even a haubergeon,” Finrod clicked his tongue and continued his circling, to pluck at the thick, soft cotton where it clung, soaked with red, around a wound – a stab from behind through a crack in the armour. “You are hurt – I am not certain whether through your foolishness or your arrogance – likely both. Disrobe.”

“I and my household come to you as fugitives from Aglon. Celegorm is wounded and you -“

”- ensured that Nargothrond’s best healers are tending to his every need.”

“And me you eviscerate, or nearly so.”

“Contrary, I am forestalling a future occasion of that kind. I know well that you are not above backstabbing, twice in short order when you took the ships and burned them, and yet here you stand trusting me to circle you with a knife, after having been backstabbed by some evil yourself. Be cautious, Curufinwë Curufinwion.”

“I stand before the Lord of this City, and the King of the House of Arfin in Exile. What choice have I?”

“Choice?” Finrod’s eyebrow lifted, as though he failed to believe Curufin’s words, or was too cautious to. “To repay my benevolence with trust, or depart once you are healed. I would not cast out kinsfolk in need with no roof to return to. The Arms of Gelion were forced, Thargelion ravaged, but my scouts tell me Himring and Ereb still stand, though both are besieged.”

He spoke the last words against the nape of Curufin’s neck, and his lips near enough to cause the dark hair on his skin to shift in the puffs of his breath. Curufin shuddered beneath him, and Finrod, with the merest twitch of lips, smiled. Curufin’s face twisted into an answering grimace, though neither saw the other. “How kind of you.”

His voice low, Finrod repeated, “I said to you, undress. You need healing.” Awaiting no further argument, he undid the knots on the doublet, leaving threads sliced easily in two, before he put the knife aside to shrug the garment off Curufin’s shoulders. Curufin let him, but at the touch of skin to skin, he winced. A shudder of goosebumps flickered over his skin, and was gone.

“What, you who endures a knife so close cannot bear touch?”

“At least the knife I know may harm. Touch, perhaps is lesss-” his words hissed to an end when Finrod’s fingers probed the edges of the wound. Not a clean slash, rather a ragged stab, bleeding again at the merest provocation.

“Less obviously dangerous?” Finrod laughed, soft and low in his throat. “Perhaps you are right.” His fingertips, when he offered them to Curufin’s lips, were daubed red, but the ring of office on his hand shone, leaf-green emerald, snakes and crown, unblemished. “I am warning you now,” Finrod said. “You are said to bring ill luck with you regardless, but I will do what I can to thwart it, and to protect mine and myself. Underestimate me at your own peril; this example was nothing at all like the things that I am able and willing to do.”

Curufin inclined his head, his grey eyes lidded by outrageous lashes. Light, refracted from the bejeweled ring, glinted on them before his lips closed over it, extinguishing the spark.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, your ring of office went to a Mortal,” Curufin said as he slid into Finrod’s study behind him. Finrod spun, the heel of his boot clicking onto the tiled floor.

“Yes. He saved my life. Surely without Barahir son of Bregor you would neither have refuge here, nor have the chance to heckle me, unless you yourself had found your way into Mandos somehow,” Finrod said. He attempted to gentle his voice to betray none of the consternation at Curufin intruding, and found it audible despite his efforts.

Curufin continued, in the same, smooth, slick voice, “And swore an Oath on the ring as well, or so I heard. It was my belief that I pledged fealty upon it to you – is that now bound to the Man?”

“You pledged fealty to me. The ring was merely a symbol.”

“I thought you were fond of symbolism, and without it, is not my pledge now void symbolically?” Curufin’s eyes slitted, when he smiled, like those of a content cat, and the bright grey of his irises vanished, glinting, into shadow.

“If you wish to provoke me, continue. Do not disregard the words I told you upon your arrival, unless you would have me prove them.”

“As my brother once said, ‘a king is he that can hold his own,’ or something of the sort. I see that you are a king, but has this city ever been under such a threat that it needed holding?” Something in the emphasis of Curufin’s words sent a shiver like a cold finger along Finrod’s spine – and then a surge of angry heat.

“I see now that I you are keen on such proof, and indeed, I shall deliver it. Kneel, Curufin.”

Finrod arched an eyebrow, and when Curufin merely shifted, robes rustling, into a more comfortable stance, grasped his hurt shoulder, exerting pressure upon Curufin’s wound – now stitched and bandaged – that left only one escape, downward, and bore Curufin to his knees.

Curufin looked up through his lashes, teeth gritted. A spot of blood began soaking through the fabric of his tunic. “What now?”

“I shall make you one of my own. I do not need to prove that I rule Nargothrond, and a recalcitrant guest I can cast from my doors. But a recalcitrant lord is not something I will tolerate. Rise, Curufin son of Fëanor, lord of Nargothrond.” Finrod released his hold, and with some satisfaction saw Curufin roll his shoulders to loosen the effects of the grip while he climbed to his feet.

“You fool,” Curufin said, leaning closer, with high, pleased colour in his cheeks. “First you invite me in despite your self-admitted awareness of the curse upon us, and now you ennoble me into your own ranks, into a station that will let me rule far more freely than I otherwise could.”

“Yes, and no,” said Finrod. He felt his face relax into a smile. “But in order to hold my own, I first needed to make you one of mine. And I do not think that you would risk what has now become your home and responsibility merely to prove a point, and if you do, then it is within my rights as your liege to punish you as I see fit.” He retrieved a two glasses, and filled them with a heavy red wine of Ossiriand that sat in a decanter on his desk. Offering Curufin one glass, Finrod said: “This round falls to me, cousin.”

Curufin stood silent, his throat working as though there were words choking him, his hand half-raised, before he slapped the glass from Finrod’s hand, spun on his heel, and in short order the door slammed behind him.

The wine pooled, like watery blood, upon the floor. Finrod smiled, thin-lipped, and drank deeply of his own.


	3. Chapter 3

Finrod massaged his temples even knowing his ink-blackened fingers would leave smudges. Beside him, in a dog-eared pile, lay the latest notes of casualties, many of them of the garrison that held Minas Tirith, and many more the people of his brothers, and the Sindarin nomads who had been taken by surprise upon Ard-Galen with little chance to escape – how many more of them went unreported, now charred bones beneath a roofless sky, he dared not even surmise. And to his right stacked the replacements for the most important offices that would be re-assigned at the dinner that was scheduled for the evening.

He swallowed the dregs of the tisane that had kept him awake and working, grimacing as pieces of herbs chafed down his throat. It took every conscious effort to straighten his back when, with no pause between his knock and the opening door, Curufin entered the study with half a smirk already on his face.

“Lord Curufin,” Finrod said. Try as he might to will his tongue to form the name into a comfortable one, or even the simplest appelation, cousin, he found no energy for even a light game of such familiarities. Undoubtedly, the unhappy work and the late hour – if it was late rather than early, for he had forgotten to turn the sand-glass a while ago, and of the hour-candle nothing remained but a clump of wax – were to blame for that. Curufin stood waiting, with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You worked late through the night, I see,” he said. “My King.”

“I have no patience for games today – tonight, whatever time it is,” Finrod replied.

“It is nearly noon, and I am not here to _play_.” Curufin’s glance, a glitter through lowered lashes, indicated the exact opposite. “Emissaries from the Falas arrived last night with a gaggle of their people who have or had kin here in Nargothrond, or elsewhere under your command, and they requested to speak with you. I took the liberty, since Edrahil was busy arranging accomodations for them, and you requested no disturbances. I also took the liberty to assure them that you would address their concerns and answer their questions at the dinner tonight – they did come at a fortuitous time for that.”

Finrod could feel the muscles of his jaw tightening in response to the prickle of irritation at the back of his neck. “Perhaps you are not here with the intent of playing games, but you are being no help either. I see no papers, no census data, nothing that would enable me to answer the questions, nor do I _know_ their questions.”

Curufin, for a brief moment, looked taken aback – no doubt a calculated move, letting Finrod see a feigned crack in his veneer, the widening eyes, half-open mouth and knitting brows a touch too stereotypical, too comical for Curufin. Three steps carried Finrod past his desk - his study was by no means small, but crammed with books and papers that allowed little room for movement – but when he bunched Curufin’s robe in his fists to pull him closer, do something - _what_ , that he himself was unsure of – paper rustled and crinkled underneath his hands. With a disgusted noise he shoved Curufin from him.

“Give them to me, and consider yourself dismissed!”

"Neither as kind or as patient now, are you?" Throughout the exchange Curufin was standing like a statue, though the arteries along his neck twitched in a traitorous, swiftly-throbbing pulse. He drew aside his outer robe, revealing a stack of papers half a finger high tucked neatly under his arm, and placed them on Finrod’s desk. His quick, red tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he reached out to touch Finrod’s temple with warm fingers. Finrod felt his skin tingling.

"Perhaps not. Perhaps you are overstepping the authority I vested in you. You are a lord of Nargothrond. You are my servant, not some bold fool with the permission to run wild. You are much less subtle now than at other occasions," he said through his teeth. Curufin's lips twitched, revealing an immaculate smile. His fingers massaged a circle on Finrod's temple.

“I shall attempt to be more subtle if that is more to your liking, though potentially less to your advantage. You are sweating ink, are you? Or bleeding black? No, not you; you are the man with the least potential for orcishness I met in all Beleriand… but, cousin, neither becomes you very well.”

Finrod resisted the temptation to give Curufin a reason to look truly astounded – whether slap the fake expression off his face, punch his lips until they split, or even both – he took a step back. There was no time. There was no _reason_. Curufin, by now secure in his station, was trying to challenge him, unsettle him, sow doubt about his rule. That was all.

“I need to prove nothing to you, my lack of orcishness or the presence of it. Out, before I shall anyway!” he said instead. Curufin bowed, never even righting his clothes. With a careful dresser who valued immaculate clothing, even this was tell-tale and calculated, no doubt to cast an ill light upon Finrod, but for the moment he would need to trust to the common sense of his own people and the careful eyes the populace kept upon the Sons of Fëanor.

He had work to do, and sat to begin browsing through the papers, jumping only when Curufin made his exit, and the door snapped home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, Zeen, for having a look!


End file.
